Poetry to Prose
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: It was three in the morning when the first knock came. It was two past three when the yelling began and four past three when she finally opened the door to him. [MSR]


Title: Poetry to Prose

Author: Barenaked Bostonian.

Rating: R

Category: MSR, UST

Disclaimer: Yeah, did you GET that memo???

Distribution: Every time you archive my shit I get frequent author miles.

Feedback: Hit me at 

Summary: It was three in the morning when the first knock came. It was two past three when the yelling began and four past three when she finally opened the door to him.

If music be the food of love, play on,

Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die.

Twelfth Night, Act one, Scene one.

It was three in the morning when the first knock came. It was two past three when the yelling began and four past three when she finally opened the door to him. He was disheveled and looked completely lost

and forlorn, a look that she was accustomed to.

She wasn't accustomed to his hands grabbing her shoulders though. Or his rough shove of her against the wall. She certainly didn't expect his lips, which had once been soft and questing to be rough and demanding, pulling at hers, begging for entrance.

His hands, which once had sought a faint, inquisitive touch, were harsh. He was pushing her and pulling her and beating her senseless with his lips, and she was taking it willingly. He was trying to force her, but he wasn't because she was letting it happen.

His fingers sought to remove her light cotton shirt, and did with ease. Then his hands were tracing indescribable patterns over her bare and hot skin, driving her towards an uncertain madness. It was wonderful and painful all at once, and god, please don't stop, because she would lose herself.

Too much at once... and her hands were in his hair, tugging, letting him feel the pain that she was feeling, that he was causing her. Too much.

His eyes connected with hers for the briefest of moments, and he saw sorrow and fear, pain and love, all screaming for dominance, but he couldn't stop. It wasn't in the cards to stop. A well orchestrated game all gone to hell. And yet her beauty was still inescapable, and his dominance won and sought. His warm body pressed up against hers

as he searched the depths of her mouth. Wondrous unchartered territory that she hadn't given willingly. And yet it was still perfect, still wonderful.

His hands on her breasts then, not learning but hurting. Hurting so, so good. If she had only planned this, moved her pawn into the correct position, if only she could have said that she had expected this, that. That she would be in his arms tonight, at her own will... not his.

But still, so so good as his hand quickly found the waistband of her pants, and how easily they slipped beneath and touched the scorching heat of her. She could have denied him then, sent him away, but the evidence was too bearing. She was ready, and it was all for him. She wished she could forestall him, but it was all too brilliant, too

wrong, but so right.

Her moan of approval was swallowed when he kissed her once more, being so perfect and so flawed at the same time. Somewhere in the back of her mind she had wondered why she would give herself over so willingly.

The pleasure when he placed his lips over her clitoris and brought her directly to the edge and then back again. The sensation of his tongue lapping at her and her tethered whimper of ecstasy. All cliche in her mind. His tongue, drawing back up her body and seeking refuge in her mouth. All wonderful.

And when he thrust into her, with no pre-empt, pain. Oh so much pain, but wanted and needed. Oh so hot and stabbing pain and more, more, more. God please don't stop, don't you ever stop, but please please stop, you're breaking my heart. Stop.

And when he hit her just the right way, she screamed and it felt so so good to let go of it all. The pain, the pleasure, the longing. Oh so good, and finally figured out and calculated to the Nth degree.

And oh, when she figured that he couldn't possibly get any closer, get any deeper, he did with a grunt and a grit of his teeth. Sweat dripping from his forehead onto her collarbone and he bent his head to lick it off. Salt and sex. That's what she tasted like to him. So he bit down on the tendons in her neck and caused her to moan and caused him to let go.

And he released and she was so filled up that she herself began to let go. Release.

And then silence, and he pulled out of her, flopped down on his back. Sweat trickling off of his forehead and she pulling the sheet up around her chin. She couldn't remember when they had gone from the wall to the bedroom or how he had divested her of her clothing. She wouldn't remember how it began, or what she had felt.

But it had ended, then and there. And then he had turned to her, swiped a damp piece of auburn hair out of her frightened eyes.

"It wasn't supposed to happen like this Scully." He said to her, swiping again at her damp forehead. Perfection.

"I know. I should have shut the door in your face." Pause, a beat.

"But I didn't."

One last pass at her skin before his hand fell idle. "You didn't."

NOTES: As always, to the brilliant people in my life, who keep it going, who pretend that I don't complain, who help me pretend everything is okay: Ashley,, Ari, Amanda, Aiah, Karen, Lesley, Chelle and Lauren. Enjoy. Yo yo.

"And words will go, from poetry to prose..." Not Myself, John Mayer.


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